


Just Me And You

by Oasiis



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: AU, Abuse, Drowning, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Physical Abuse, Rape, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Smut, Victim Blaming, Victim Recovery, chemical burns, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-04-16 21:49:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4641450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oasiis/pseuds/Oasiis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve is just an all round good guy honourably discharged from the army and doing what he can to help those in need. For years he's been blind to how in need someone is right under his very nose but that's all set to change when Steve realises none of his neighbours are who he thinks they are. And Bucky in particular is just impossible to resist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Quiet Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> So I've not posted a fic in a long time wow and this is currently unbeta'd so there's probably mistakes but hey enjoy! This chapter just sets stuff up, Chapter two will delve into what happened to Bucky that day!

          The apartment above Steve has always been quiet. Occasionally he’ll hear the television, the hum of a microwave or the flush of a toilet, but in the four years of living here he’s never heard anything particularly loud -- excluding New Year but then who stays quiet on New Years? He’s never questioned it because the silence is good for him. The often strange hours he works at the local Veteran’s Affairs hospital has him thankful he doesn’t come home at 3am to pounding music or worse. He barely knows the people that live there either though not through a lack of trying.

          Growing up with a sickly mother and a father that died in the military, Steve has always known the value of friendship. Whether it be a friendly smile or a soft good morning or even a shoulder to lean on when a loved one dies overseas, Steve Rogers has always known the importance of being a good and friendly neighbour. Each morning he collects his milk from the doorstep and that of his neighbour Sharon. She’s a nurse and handy when Steve gets a little too excited in the kitchen so he picks up her milk each morning because she always forgets. He collects the paper for Mr Wilkes at number 4 so the poor guy doesn’t have to climb down those flights of stairs on the days the paper boy is too lazy to climb up and do his job, and he helps Miss Akintola at number 13 with her shopping when her hips plays up in the cold.

          Steve is a good neighbour and he lives in a good building with decent and quiet people. At least that is what Steve has always believed until he comes home one Thursday evening and realises he doesn’t know even a fraction of what he thinks he does about his neighbours.

          Thursdays were hard days for Steve. His short stint in the military -- cut short after he became a prisoner of war and was experimented on, leaving him with some bad scars and an honourable discharge -- gave him the experience he needs to hold therapy sessions with fellow soldier’s back from whatever country they served their tour in. Thursday’s are usually saved for a dear friend Sam Wilson, who is not only one of the sweetest men on the planet, but also one of the hardest beaten. Steve spends hours listening to him, storing away ever account and piece of information that the man entrusts him with and is often torn between feelings of relief that he will never suffer that way, and guilt that he is not out there fighting with the men and women he had yearned to fight beside the moment his father passed.

          It’s warm and dry that evening, and Steve’s shed his coat in favour of draping it over his arm leaving him in just a light blue polo shirt to try and combat the heat. His hair is a little messed, darker near the roots where he’s been wiping away sweat all day and as he strides down the street towards his apartment building, his mind wandering through what he could make for dinner now that he’s home on time, when a man clearly furious at the world comes barreling out of the front door and crashes headlong into Steve as he hunts for his keys.

          The impact knocks him clean off his feet, landing with a crash and a grunt as the two tumble down the stairs and come to a stop tangled together. The man above Steve curses out his anger and drives the palm of his hand into Steve’s gut in an effort to untangle himself and stand back up. Steve yelps in pain and reacts in instinct, flinging an elbow to the left and sending the stranger tumbling to the side but free from their tangle. The man rises and Steve lifts up on one elbow, eyes narrowed and his coat lying tangled with his ankles and he dares the stranger to make a sound. For a moment it looks like he will ;the small eyes set in a rugged face topped with slick black hair, but the man merely hisses out a sharp ‘fucker’ and strides away down the street

  
          It’s only after Steve’s picked himself up. dusted off his jeans and retrieved his coat that he spots the keys lying on the ground. On first glance they look like his with the two keys for each lock and the key-ring every apartment owner in this place gets so they don’t lose their keys. It’s only once he’s picked them up and seen the apartment number that he realises they belong to the apartment right above him. He frowns, turning the tag over in his hand and contemplates chasing after the angry stranger to return them. He quickly opts out of that when his stomach gives a twinge of reminding pain.

          He does know that two people live above him, a couple he thinks but he’s never been quite sure. A last glance after the stranger and Steve climbs back up the stairs and lets himself into the building. With any luck, the other person that lives there will be in and Steve can drop the keys off there.

          Heading through the lobby, Steve gives a nod to the security guard who’s clearly engrossed in his early evening television drama’s and doesn’t even acknowledge Steve as he passes. The lift’s been broken here for as long as Steve can remember but on his way past he gives the button his usual experimental press just in case. Not that he minds the stairs but he knows of a few residents that would surely love the freedom that would come with a working elevator.

          He climbs the four flights up to his own floor with ease, then one more up to the one above to reach the apartment directly above his. Despite his fitness level, Steve found himself sweating a little more in the heat and his polo shirt clung a little cosier than normal. He shakes his head clear of the sweat and knocks on the door. It’s a long shot to think that someone might be home but he tries because Steve is a good neighbour. When there’s no answer he tries again just to be sure, and although he hears a noise inside, no one comes to the door. Maybe they have a pet? He muses quietly to himself as he pushes open the letter box and drops the keys through, then makes his way back down to his own apartment and forgets the whole thing.

          At least he tries to. He’s reminded when he strips off to take a shower and finds his abdomen more tender than he would like. He’s reminded when he’s showered and drying off and finds a missed scuff mark on his coat. And he’s reminded when he has to choose between popping a couple of pills for the growing headache, or a beer.

          Steve chooses the beer, popping the cap off with the bottle opener and making his way across his lounge to the fire escape. Out the window to rest on the small ledge fitted to his level, he sits on a step and leans on the railing, staring out across the city with the beer chilling his throat as quickly as the condensation wets his fingers. The night seems to be getting hotter and Steve falls into mindless thought about how to keep his apartment cool while he sleeps -- he can’t afford a fancy air conditioner -- when something burning hot lands on the soft skin between thumb and forefinger.

          “Hey!” Steve yelps out, setting his beer down quickly so he can shake the heat off his hand and realises a second later that it’s ash.

          “Sorry.” A voice drifts down from above, quiet and heavy with a Brooklyn accent, one that has Steve almost smiling to hear another true to their roots Brooklynite. It’s darker now so when Steve glances up, he can’t see much about the person above him but the tell-tale rise of smoke from the man’s hand is enough to tell him what fell on his hand. At least the guy apologised for dropping his ash on him.

          “It’s alright,” Steve replies easily, wiping over the area with the hell of his opposite palm before grabbing his beer again. “I’ve never seen anyone else sit out here, just took me by surprise is all.” He glances to the window, curious as to whether he’s one of the guys that lives above him or just a few floors up and taking a smoke lower down. Not that it matters and it’s hardly Steve’s business. He takes another swig of the beer, shaking the bottle to gauge how much he as left before glancing up once more and watching the orange burn of the cigarette as the man takes another drag in.

          “Still, probably shoulda yelled ash below or somethin’.” There’s a snort in the man’s words this time and Steve smiles lazily and rolls his shoulders.

          “Would be handy for next time,” he agrees before biting the bullet in case this is his neighbour in which case he should probably explain why he shoved keys through the letterbox, “You live there or further up?”

          The man looks down and Steve can tell by the way the glowing end of the cigarette dips lower rather than to the side as if in a hand, before he makes an agreeable noise. Steve takes that as a yes to his first question and he lets out a huff of breath close to a laugh.

          “Did you get the keys? I ran into a guy earlier, literally, and he was in such a hurry to elbow me in the gut and run that he left his keys behind. I dropped them through the letterbox when no one answered, just so you know I didn’t steal them.” Steve trails off with another laugh that ends hollow and swallowed by his beer bottle. The man above doesn’t seem to acknowledge anything Steve’s saying at that moment and the ex-Soldier shifts on the harsh railing beneath him.

          “Yeah I got them. Trust Brock t’lose them when tacklin’ some poor guy. I’m sorry about that, he doesn’t know his own strength sometimes.” Another flare of amber before the dot moves, clearly in the man’s hand now then a burst of color as the cigarette is crushed out on the railing and flicked out into the dark street below.

          Steve smiles warmly and shakes his head, draining the last dregs of his bottle before he spoke. “It’s alright, it happens.” A wet spot lands on Steve’s cheek and he lightly brushes it away with a thought of rain. He wonders if the man above felt the same thing as he’s rising, the metal grating creaking under the shift of weight and then the soft spoken Brooklyn stranger is gone through the window with a quiet murmur of good night.

          “Goodnight,” Steve murmurs back in the wake of his departure and then he sits there for a few moments longer, wondering when the last time someone had said goodnight to him. It’s a sobering thought but Steve gives no more consideration to the man in a rush and the keys as he climbs through his own window and locks it behind him. The empty bottle is dropped in the recycling and Steve considers food once more but decides to give it a miss with the promise of an early night and a big breakfast.

          He trudges through his apartment, switching off the few lights he had turned on when he’d arrived, and heads to the bathroom to clean up for the night. It’s only when he’s stripped off his t-shirt and glanced in the mirror while reaching for his toothbrush that he notices the streak of blood across his cheek. Steve glances at his hands and see’s a small streak there on one finger and he has a cold feeling for a moment that maybe he sustained a worse injury in that fall.

          Then he thinks of the wet spot he felt and the suspicion of rain that was clearly false as it’s still as hot and dry as Charlie’s oak smoked ribs. If it wasn’t from the rain, was it from the man above him?

          Suddenly the angry man fleeing the apartment and the man’s quiet voice take on a different tone in Steve’s mind and he stares down, running his thumb over the blood stain. No, he couldn’t just jump to some wild theory, the guy probably had a nose bleed and that was why he left so suddenly. Steve washes the blood from his hand and his cheek and tries to stop his mind running away with crazy theories. He knows the simplest solution is always the true one, regardless of how much he wonders the huge what if.

          When Steve curls into his bed that night, he stares up at the ceiling until he hears the door above and knows that man -- Brock? -- must be home. But of course the apartment is as quiet as always and Steve falls asleep with the promise of setting his mind as ease when he wakes up by dropping round to make sure things were okay and… whatever other excuse he could come up with.


	2. Weakness Of My Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at what happened to Bucky that fateful Thursday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two is so long omg I tried to split it into two parts but it just didn't work so I'm posting it as is, unbeta'd again because I just like to write tbh and mistakes will be corrected later! Oh and incase you're wondering why they haven't seen each other's face yet, there is a reason! 
> 
> Enjoy!

        The first time Brock hit him was during an argument about something he doesn't remember but the countless apologies made afterwards still settle clear in his mind. The second time was during a drunken fight and James hadn't held it against Brock since he had also wanted to throw a punch. The third time was a slap when James broke one of the glasses Brock's friend Jack had given them as a moving in present but James doesn't count that as the third time. He counts the third time when they were in bed together and he tried to tell Rumlow that he wasn't in the mood but his partner was having none of it and James had been too stunned by the punch to register much of the sex.

 

        He doesn't see himself as a victim, doesn't see what is wrong with his relationship. All James see's is a man that works hard to support them both so surely he could things right around the house? Keep the place clean and tidy, food on the table and his hole available on command.

 

        Such simple instruction and James spends many of his nights trying to work out what he's doing wrong, how he can be better and please the man who does so much for him.

 

        With his parents both dying when he was young, Bucky grew up without much stability. He was separated from his sister and swallowed by the care system until he came of age and was tossed out into the work with a pillow and a decade of bruises as affection. Finding Brock had been a lucky break for him, he provides the stability and the firm hand that James needs but he knows that it's never good enough and he can never quite grasp what it is that he keeps managing to fuck up.

 

        He understands the flying fist when he breaks something or misses a spot when he's cleaned. He understand a foot in the ribs when he speaks out of line or challenged Brock without meaning to. He even understands the lack of lubrication when Brock has to teach him a lesson for smiling at the mailman or spending too long at the store. But what Bucky doesn't understand is how his simple questions, seeking to be better, can cause Brock to fly into such a rage.

 

        That Thursday had started out like most others. He'd woken Brock with a blow job, been obedient when his lovers hands curled in his hair and forced him further down until his nose was crushed again the messy curls Brock kept around his groin. He'd been obedient when Rumlow had came down his throat and then held him there until black spots danced in front of his eyes. He'd helped Brock shower, prepared his breakfast and even been quiet when Rumlow came up behind him and grasped his wrist to hold his hand over the open flame on the stove with a quiet demand for Bucky to stop hesitating when deep throating. It hadn't hurt that much anyway.

 

        He'd kissed Brock goodbye and spent the rest of the morning cleaning up the bedroom and the kitchen. It had been a daily routine until Brock had come home in the early afternoon. The housework was always finished by the time Brock came home except he usually wasn't home until 7 and being early meant that nothing was finished.

 

        James freezes in place with the scourer in hand as he hears the door slam open then closed, then the flick of the lock. At first he thinks maybe it's a burglar but then why would a burglar have keys? James clambers up from where he'd been scrubbing the oven door and pulls off the plastic gloves as he heads for the door and peeks out. He can see Rumlow shrugging off his coat and then that voice that Bucky thinks he loves, calls out.

 

        "James? Where the hell are you?"

 

        Bucky immediately steps through the door with a warm smile and takes a tentative step forward.

 

        "You're home early," he smiles, yet the curl of his lips wavers when he doesn't get a smile in return.

 

        "What are you doing?" Rumlow demands, a frown creasing his forward. Bucky swallows and indicates back to the kitchen then to the gloves in his hands.

 

        "I was cleaning the oven like I do every--"

 

        "I'm home and your fucking mouth isn't on my cock," Rumlow cuts in and James immediately drops to his knees in a panic.

 

        "I'm sorry, I-- I didn't know you were coming home early," he whispers, yet somewhat certain that Rumlow must have told him and he had forgotten, somehow he must have.

 

        Rumlow moves forward a step, then another and growls low in his throat, a warning of the anger burning under the surface. Bucky is clueless as to where the anger is coming from but he never needs to know that part, only that it's because of him and he never knows how to fix it. So when Brock moves forward, James slides forward on his knees to meet him, head ducked and mouth dry as he reaches for Rumlow's belt and pulls apart the buckle. His lover doesn't stop him so Bucky pulls apart material until Rumlow's thick cock is free from its confines. A long time ago Bucky had found this aspect to be rather attractive but now, deep down he hates everything about how Rumow's body is instrumental in hurting him.

 

        Bucky follows a well practiced routine that he barely thinks as he takes his lover in his mouth and swallows him down to the root despite the rawness of his throat. He wants to please, to apologise for forgetting and not knowing and it never occurs to him that Rumlow never told him in the first place.

 

        He suckles and swallows like it's all he knows, so engrossed and desperate to lease that he doesn't see the slap until it's too late. The pain explodes sharply across his cheekbone, aggravating an old bruise and the surprise catches Bucky off guard, so much so that his jaw tightens and Rumlow feels the scrape of teeth.

 

        Bucky doesn't realise the teeth until Rumlow has a hand in his hair and is dragging him off to throw him to the ground with a pained howl. Bucky sprawls back, unable to reach back and brace himself and he stares up in shock until it sinks in what happened with the way Runlow is examining his crotch.

 

        "Oh no... no no Rumlow I'm sorry it was an accident, I didn't realise, I didn't know you were going to-- I'm sorry!" The words spill forth in a panic as trembling fingers reach up to his own lips as if he could somehow take back that flash of teeth.

 

        In truth it was barely even a graze let alone the bite Brock is making it out to be but Bucky believes the anger in his lovers stance over his own memory of what happened. When Rumlow advances, Bucky tries to scramble away, repeating the array of apologies as if it would make a difference.

 

        "Get over here you twisted son of a bitch, think you can try and bite my dick off and get away with it huh?" Rumlow reaches Bucky in three strides, grabbing that mop of brown hair and dragging him towards the kitchen, ignoring the small yelp that comes from his victim and the begging. He's competent fine of course but for Brock, when things go bad at work, he looks for any excuse to punish Bucky. He's clever in that none of his treatment occurs unless Bucky deserves it and oh, Rumlow is making sure Bucky deserves it.

 

        He had planned to use the tap but upon entering the kitchen he spots the bucket of dirty soapy water that had been in use before he came home. It's much more appealing and without pausing, he drags Bucky over to the bucket.

 

        "I've told you before that biting won't help and you won't listen, what do I have to do to show you that hurting me won't bring anything nice?" Rumlow's voice has dropped a few tones as he stares down at Bucky's tears filled eyes.

 

        Bucky drags in each breathe between the tightness in his chest and reaches up to try and touch Brock's wrist.

 

        "I didn't bite-- I didn't meant to bite Brock please I'm so sorry--!" His plea that Brock will understand two mistakes in the space of five minutes and perhaps forgive him is cut short by the impact of the water. He's flung forward, Brock's hand secure in his hair and forcing him into the cold. The soap burns his eyes and his fingers scrabble at the edge of the bucket in a desperate attempt to leverage himself out.

 

        Rumlow watches with a sickened glee as Bucky's head disappeared beneath the bubbles into the greasy dirty water. Rumlow tightens his grip and pleases his knee into the base of Bucky's spine, watching the way the others body trembles at the new flare of pain. When he pulls Bucky up, Bucky gasps for air, coughing desperately and yet still trying to apologise. Rumlow simple growls in his ear,

 

        "Huh your fucking teeth are still there, let's try again?" and promtly shoves Bucky's head back into the water.

 

        The second time is worse because Bucky doesn't have the air in his lungs to fight it. It's against the rules when it comes to accepting his punishments but Bucky's fingers move down to the base of the bucket to see if he can try and tip it over. The mess would be enough to free himself and gasp some air. There's a moment why all he feels in cold air against his backside and Brock's grip weakens, giving the illusion that he may bring him up for air. Then he feels that fat cock against his already well abused hole. The pressure is one type in pain, the feeling of Rumlow forcing his way into his swollen and torn hole is quite another and Bucky cries out-- and properly swallows a large mouthful of dirty water and cleaning products.

 

        He can feel the anger in every bruising thrust, feel the lack of love in the grip in his hair and as Bucky's visit darkness and his world floats, he gives a fleeting thought to the peace of death. Until one of Runlows thrusts sends Bucky forward and the momentum tips over the bucket. Water and man alike go sprawling across the floor and Bucky drags in a wet breath that's forced out moments later as Rumlow grabs his hips and starts fucking harder and faster that before.

 

        Lightheaded from the lack of air, Bucky is almost spared the pain until Rumlow isn't satisfied and his handsome down to cup Bucky's own cock and twist cruelly. Bucky yelps out, chest sliding on the wet tiles and he presses his palms down weakly to try and gain some grip but failing.

 

        Rumlow's pace is relentless, his breath heavy and he leans over Bucky, teeth catching on a newly healing slice on his shoulder from the night before.

 

        The sharp spike of pain ha Bucky throwing his elbow back and striking Rumlow on the jaw, and it's that which finally unlocked the rage in his lover. Bucky's apology is ignored, so are his desperate breaths as Rumlow's pulls out of him, flips him onto his back and thrusts back in only thing time one hand seals down around Bucky's throat and the other wraps around Bucky's cock and balls and jerks them painfully away from his body. Bucky's own hands move to Rumlow's arms, tears spilling down his cheeks as there's no let up from either end and the dark spots appear in his vision again. This time Rumlow Bears down until Buckya world does go black and he spends a few more minutes fucking his limp body hard before coating his abused insides in cum and pulling out.

 

        Bucky is brought back to consciousness by a sharp kick to the ribs and while he's sure he feels something shift, he's unsure if it was real or not. His focus is back in seconds, the burning pain in his eyes and throat, the wheezing in his chest and the blood streaking his legs and yet all Bucky can manage is to focus on Rumlow walking out the door.

 

        "No... please don't leave me here alone," he croaks out to an empty apartment.

 

        Bucky is left in a silent apartment with water soaking into the skirting and a body aching in the worse kind of ways but a few minutes later when he hears a knock on the door, he scrambles painfully to his feet and hopes Brock has come back and simply locked himself out. He doesn’t care what happens, he just needs him here, to know he won’t leave.

 

        Bucky stumbles into the side table with a wince before reaching the door but as he peeks through the keyhole he doesn’t see Brock. In fact all he see’s in a broad chest and thick arms clad in a shirt that seems to be clinging to a well-sculpted body. There’s a moment where Bucky finds the stranger fleetingly attractive but he can’t see his face. Then the stranger leans closer to the door and pushes open the letter box to push a set of keys through. As they fall between Bucky’s bare feet, he recognises them immediately but when he glances back up, the man is gone.

 

        Bucky picks up the keys and drops them into the small bowl on the table he bumped into earlier and releases a wet cough. His entire face and mouth sting, and as Bucky gingerly presses shaking fingers to his lips, his stomach turns and he makes a limping dash for the bathroom to hurl. His body fights through the trauma and the shock, causing stomach cramps and his few meals to end up flushed but by the time he has purged, Bucky feels a fraction better and he drags himself into the shower to clean up. He’s fairly certain there’s something wrong, his chest feels tight and his throat feels wet in an uncomfortable way but he washes himself down and tenderly does what he can to clean out his hole. His sobs are muffled in the fist he jams into his mouth, his trembling unstoppable but at least he is clean.

 

        There’s still no sign of Brock when he comes out the shower so Bucky dresses in comfortable clothes and moves to the kitchen to clean up. Every blink and swallow has a burning reminder of what happened but Bucky doesn’t question why Brock was so angry or so suddenly cruel, he just questions his own stupidity. He wrinkles his nose when cleaning up the spilled water and streaks of blood, panting by the end but the kitchen is dry and there is still no sign of his lover. The apartment is increasingly empty, silence crawling in and settling into his mind in a way he is sure can only be dislodged by a decent slap. It doesn’t take him long to turn to his blades, needing that sharp pain to remove the fog in his mind. Bucky keeps them in the bathroom, a present from Brock of course. He selects on of the bigger ones and grabs a pack of smokes from the drawer before heading outside to the fire escape in the hopes that he can numb himself away from the cloud of the apartment.

 

        He seats himself on the railing and lights on up, huddling in an over-sized sweater as he rolls down the waistband of his track pants and starts tracing old scars along his hip. The blood wells up quickly, line after line but the pain is almost soothing, like a release he can’t quite get any other way. His throat burns as he inhales the cigarette smoke but at this point he doesn’t care anymore. He needs the pain to remind him not to be bad. Over and over until the blood runs dark and pure and Bucky wonders if it will keep running and drain him dry.

 

        He watches and smokes, taps the cigarette on the metal railing and lurches when he hears a voice cry out from below.

 

        “Hey!”

 

        Bucky glances down in surprise and notes someone sitting beneath him so he murmurs a quiet sorry and moves his hand to avoid dropping any more ash on the man below. He can’t quite see his face but his build is similar to what Bucky saw earlier through the eye hole. He wonders distantly if they are the same guy, honestly Bucky doesn’t get out enough to know who lives in his building. The metal steps have numbed his backside and the pain he’s inflicted on himself is enough to draw pain focus away from everywhere else.

 

        “It’s alright,” the man replies with some movement, “I’ve never seen anyone else sit out here, just took me by surprise is all.”

 

        “Still probably shoulda yelled ash below or somethin’,” Bucky murmurs half to himself and he’s surprised when the man hears him, then asks if he lives here. Bucky makes a sound, unsure whether he was allowed to give out that kind of information but the man below carries on talking regardless.

 

        “Did you get the keys? I ran into a guy earlier, literally, and he was in such a hurry to elbow me in the gut and run that he left his keys behind. I dropped them through the letterbox when no one answered, just so you know I didn’t steal them.”

 

        So it was the same guy. Bucky swallows hard and glances down, taking a deep breath before he speaks. If this guy got into an altercation with Brock, his partner wouldn’t be forgetting it any time soon. He moves to pull the waistband backup and draw in the last drag of the cigarette as he replied as evenly as possible.

 

        “Yeah I got them. Trust Brock t’lose them when tacklin’ some poor guy. I’m sorry about that, he doesn’t know his own strength sometimes.” He flicks the stub away and forces himself to stand up with a swallowed down wince before he murmurs goodnight and slips back into his apartment. Manners cost nothing after all. He heads back inside and shuts out the world and the stranger without a second though, stashing his razors away and deciding to let himself bleed until Brock comes home. Maybe it will show Brock how dedicated he is. He crawls into bed after making sure he doesn’t stink of smoke and curls up, unable to sleep but curled right there. For a moment his mind drifts to the stranger and that soft voice before his dreams are interrupted by the door and the flood of relief spiked with fear that Brock is home.

  
        But at least he’s not alone anymore.


	3. Milk Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honestly this is just a quick filler to get from where Steve and Bucky currently are to where they need to be for the next chapter, it just got really long!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy cow I'm really stunned that people are loving this! Honestly I have only the barebones of a plot in mind and I write it on the train on the way to work, all the pain! I do read all your comments and I can promise Brock will be delivered several knuckle sandwiches by Steve... but not yet! Anyway this chapter is shorter because what I wrote got so long I had to cut stuff out, but rather than cutting it out, I gave it it's own chapter so there will be two chapter updates today! 
> 
> Enjoy!

        Brock had returned that night with the intent on making Bucky highly aware of what he had done wrong. He had walked in the apartment somewhat drunk but sober enough to stay on his feet and keep some sane thought in his mind. He'd seen Bucky in bed, seen the tears in his eyes and the blood on the sheets and heard the begging fall so practiced from his lips. But in that moment, Brock chose another punishment, one he had only done once before and the outcome had been short of marvellous.

        He started packing a bag. Clothes and shoes, a couple of books and supplies; all for one person. Bucky had watched in horror as Brock packed himself up and left the apartment with a quiet explanation of how he couldn't stay in the apartment of someone that continued to hurt him. Bucky had known begging wouldn't do much good, but he had tried anyway. Very clear memories of when Brock had left the last time and it was not a happy time at all. Brock had trained him in such a way that fending for himself wasn't something he could do to a survivable level.

        It had been something that had happened slowly over time, the reliance on another that had built up so slowly Bucky hadn't realised it was there until the first time Brock had left him alone and he had learned just how deeply he thought he was in 'love'. He had no idea what the real word was. Looking at him now, it was hard to picture him as the same man that had once picked fights in the street to defend those kids smaller than him, or signed up for the army in an attempt to make his late father proud. Such a sight was Bucky now, that the thought of what he had done before the charming yet controlling Brock Rumlow had slipped into his life was rather far-fetched.

        What neither of them had counted on of course, was the man living just beneath them, the one that heard the stomping and the tears that night as he lay awake wondering just what exactly when on in the apartment above him.

        Steve had thought his building was a pleasant one, not one where people bled on fire escapes or left in the middle of the night leaving behind the sounds of muffled crying. It was enough for the soldier to wish the apartment was silent once more. He spent the rest of the night just listening to the soft sounds above, knowing he could do nothing but he listened just so he could say that he was heard, that the one upstairs in tears was being heard no matter how alone he felt.

        It was a somewhat noble thought considering they were strangers and for all he knew, the man that had left had been right to. Yet the ange, the cursing of the stranger crashing into him and the softness of the stranger that had dropped the ash on his hands wasn't something he felt belonged together. It wasn't a match that made sense in his mind, even though he was aware the unlikeliest relationships sprouted from the strangest of similarities.

        Still, as Steve fell asleep when silence finally fell in the apartment above, he already knew he couldn't let this one go.

        The next morning he was up as early as usual. He collected the mail and the paper for his neighbours, said hello to the guard despite the lack of response and he ran his fingers over the button that never worked before heading upstairs to make his usual round of deliveries before breakfast. Only this morning there was two extra cartons of milk in his hands as he climbed the stairs.

        He had 'borrowed' it from the set for the apartment above, well he hoped it was for the one above, else some poor soul was going to have some very dry cornflakes and it would be all Steve's fault. The thought had him smiling a little softer that morning, pausing to help Sharon with the many parcels she was bringing down the stairs. Steve said his usual good morning, asked about her last shift at work and casually turned the conversation to the colour of the blood that had fallen on his cheek the night before. As a soldier he knew the various shades and not consistency could depend on the wound but getting the second option of a nurse was something he was somewhat comfortable with.

        Sharon agreed with his theory that blood that came from a clean wound that was deep but not arterial, the hardest thing about the conversation was Steve having to come up with an excuse as to why he was asking. So after his own breakfast of toast and some orange juice, he kept the strangers milk in his fridge as he went about his morning and kept an ear on the apartment above, listening to signs of life. He didn't hear much movements until the start of the afternoon, an odd floorboard creak here and there that suggested a shift in weight over the floor.

        Armed with his stolen bottles of milk, Steve headed up the stairs and knocked on the door he had dropped the keys through the day before. The hallway was silent - most had left for work hours ago, unlike Steve who didn't have to work until later in the day. But he was positive that the man above hadn't left the apartment - and he was hoping he could come up with a decent explanation as to why he had the guys milk at 12:30 on the afternoon.

        There was silence on the other side of the door and Steve knocked again, hoping he hasn't missed whoever lived here.

        Bucky hadn't crawled out of bed until after 12, having fallen asleep in the late hours of the morning when his tears had numbed the pain enough to allow him some rest. Waking up had been painful and Bucky had taken 15 minutes to ease himself out of bed and to the kitchen for a glass of water. His throat still burned, his eyes still stung with every breath and he was unsure if the raspiness of his breathing was from his throat or something worse.

        When he heard the door however, his entire world shifted into a brighter hope that maybe Brock was back, maybe he had some idea in mind that was better than leaving Bucky all alone here. It took him a painfully long time to hobble to the door, an apology ready on his lips when he tugged it open and then froze when he saw that it wasn't Brock at all. It was the man he had seen through the eye-hole the day before, the one he has dropped ash on by accident.

        Bucky froze in fear for a moment, the guy was huge! But then he smiled this gentle smile and Bucky relaxed just a fraction.

                That was one hell of a smile.

 

 


	4. I Know Your Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes a lot of worried staring but it's not long until Steve works out exactly where he knows Bucky from, but will it make a difference?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See! Two in one day, I spoil you guys xD Okay so this chapter is as usual unbeta'd though I have gone through to make sure there's no majour mistakes that I could spot. I am pretty excited for the feedback for this chapter cause I re-wrote it like three times because I wanted their first interaction to be perfect and, well, Bucky certainly fell for Steve ;)
> 
> Enjoy!

        Steve smiled the moment the door opened but what he saw was enough to shake even his composure. The man in front of him was strikingly beautiful; dark brown hair, deep green eyes and a killer jawline. But those eyes seemed to lack any life other than the red rims and puffy skin. He looked thin, bruised and trembling where he stood and Steve's stomach twisted up in a tight knot as he fought to keep the smile on his face. Because beyond the clear signs of ill health and shaking, there was something familiar about the man that he couldn't quite place yet. Steve stared in silence for a few moments before he held up the milk and gave a rather sheepish shrug of his shoulders.

        "Hey, sorry I was so completely half asleep this morning I think I grabbed your milk too, y'know since we share the same number. Must have misread the letters" he explained softly, holding up the carton but not quite within reach in an effort to strike up a conversation. He didn't want to scare the guy when he looked like a strong wind could knock him off his feet, poor soul. Steve glanced over Bucky’s shoulder to the apartment within but he didn’t see much to make an assessment over, only a man who looked rather sick. He thought back to the night before and the way the man had sounded, how he had looked despite being shadow-y. He concluded silently that he must have been wearing some sort of bulky sweater because he certainly did not look this thin the night before.

        Bucky simply stared back at Steve then glanced down the milk. He hadn’t even thought about going downstairs to get it. Usually he picked a time just after everyone else had gone to work or long before they were even awake, but it seemed in the mess of the last day, the thought of his normal chores hadn’t registered fast enough in his mind. Brock was going to be so pissed.

        “Oh, he’ll be--...” Bucky’s quiet words trailed off into silence when he realised Brock couldn’t be mad about the late milk because he wasn’t here anymore. His grip on the door tightened in an effort to stay upright, brow furrowing as he concentrated on how to stay steady and get the milk without anything suspicious slipping through. Bucky was excellent at keeping secrets but there were some -- like how he looked -- that he couldn’t manage to hide. That was his determination to make Brock proud though Bucky never considered that he was hiding abuse, only that they led a rather kinky lifestyle and if anyone was causing the hurt, it was him. After all, that was why Brock had walked out. “I mean… thanks. I completely forgot to… uh, to go down and pick it up anyway so…” He rolled his shoulders in a shrug and smiled weakly as he eyed the two bottles of milk that the stranger didn't seem to be releasing any time soon. That coupled with the sheer bulk of the man had Bucky shrinking in on himself slightly and indicating for Steve to come inside. He knew to always be polite to neighbours, knew it aroused suspicion and annoying questions if he was rude or obnoxious (not that he ever was but Brock had trained him just in case). 

        “Been cleaning?” Steve asked casually as he stepped inside, the smell of detergent was strong enough to sting his nose and he glanced at the brunet as he moved to shut the door and noticed a distinct limp as he did so. Now he had not expected to be invited inside so overstepping and asking about any injuries would surely lead to him prying too personally, though he did make sure to keep ahold of the cartons as the guy looked like he was really struggling to stay upright.

        Bucky simply allowed the larger man to keep what control he desired, nodding at the cleaning comment and leading the way through to the kitchen. “Fridge is over there, if you could put those away. You want a drink?” Every word burned and Bucky had to fight the hot tears that threatened behind his eyes as a result. He refused to show weakness, refused to show anything that could indicate any sort of problem, not just because Brock would be furious but because he was a private person in general and this man was a stranger. He had to be the perfect host so that the man would leave and never return. Bucky pointed to one of the stools near the breakfast bar for the man to take a seat as he then leaned on one of the counters for support and began hunting for two clean glasses.

        “Just water would be great thanks, those stairs are a killer,” Steve laughed softly as he crossed to the fridge and nudged it open. He was surprised to find it completely empty save for a small block of stale cheese and what looked like some well over-due soup. He didn't comment though, simply placed the milk inside and turned to the indicated seat, sliding into the stool. The almost textbook hospitality was something Steve would also be guilty of so he had to smile at that, but there was still something strikingly familiar about the man’s face that he couldn’t quite place yet.

        “I’m Steve by the way, Steve Rogers? I don’t think we’ve ever actually met properly despite living a few feet from one another.”

        Bucky moved to the sink and turned on the tap slowly, filling the two glasses with the cold water that came streaming out and silently he was grateful for the choice as the water would be sure to soothe his throat. He limped over to the breakfast bar and set the glasses down, sliding one to the stranger -- Steve -- and pulled himself tenderly onto one of the stools. Wrapping a hand around the glass he allowed silence to fall as he took a drink and missing the worried flicker that passed over Steve’s forehead. Bucky drank nearly the whole glass, the chill momentarily soothing the fire in his throat and chest before he forced a smile.

        “I’m Bucky-- well my name is James but I haven’t been called that since--, well in a long time,” he explained. That quiet, thick Brooklyn drawl was enough to bring the smile full swing back onto Steve’s lips and he tore his gaze away from the empty glass.

        “Bucky, that’s unusual. From a middle name I take it?” He took a drink of his own water, not missing the way Bucky shifted on the stool. Perhaps he was uncomfortable with the small talk taking a personal turn? “I mean… Bucky from James is quite a unique name.”

        Bucky eyed the man in silence, not because he was unsure what to say but because his vision had gone hazy. He forced a nod and another smile, having to think out each word before he spoke.

        “My middle name's Buchanan, parent’s from Scotland so… family name gave me an interesting nickname.” He nodded once he’d gotten the words out and his gaze dropped to roll the glass between his hands, the worry building that Brock could come home and find another man in his apartment. He would surely flip, especially since Steve and Brock had already had a small run-in. Small talk was fine as long as nothing was learned and Bucky knew the rules, knew no men were allowed in the apartment. But he was still a traditional guy at heart and Rumlow could never erase what few lessons hi smother had taught him before she passed. His only hope was that he could end this quickly, get Steve out of there and that would be the end of it. The thought sent Bucky’s heart rate skyrocketing, so focused on his fear that he flinched when Steve let out a sharp excited noise.

        “Buchanan! I thought I recognised you! Did you ever join the army? Weird question I know, but I was in the army. Back when I first signed up there was this guy, middle name Buchanan and he was one hell of a soldier. I never got to meet him much, heard the guy saved a bunch of lives when someone crashed into the armoury, set of a shit ton of explosions and Buchanan pulled about ten guys out. Ended up with scarring on his left arm? That was… was that you? Forgive me if I---... hey, are you okay?”

        Steve’s excited torrent at finally recognising the guy was cut short at the sheer horrified expression that had slipped onto James' face. Bucky hadn’t expected to ever meet someone from his time in the army, it had been so short he hadn’t had the chance to make any friends and yet here was this huge, intimidating stranger reeling off the reason why he had been forced to quit, speaking as if he knew him and Bucky was certain his heart stopped for a moment. Back then he had been a different man, back then he had been worth something but now, now he just hurt the people he loved. And recognition meant the chance that this guy could come back, sticking his nose where it didn’t belong so Bucky started shaking his head and trying to stand.

        “No--No it wasn’t me I-I’m not… not..f’r the army I-- think you should go, please I---...--think m'gonna be...be sick...” With his frantic heart rate, pounding headache and blood loss it was a wonder Bucky had made it this far but those final panicked words slipped out a fading whispers as his legs gave way and he crashed back to the tile floor in a sea of silky black.

        Steve watched in horror as the man stumbled over nonsense words, paling and then collapsing right off the stool. He darted forward with a soft exclamation, managing to catch Bucky's head before he cracked it on the tiled floor and immediately he reached for his phone to dial 911. He was stopped by those dull, bleary eyes staring up at him and a desperate, raspy begging plea for no doctor. So Steve, after shifting closer to Bucky and easing the man's head into his lap, dialed the only person he could think of.

        He called Sharon. She wasn't a hospital but she was as close to medical attention as he could get without taking the poor guy to a hospital. While Steve knew what he should be doing was calling the ambulance, there was something about the pain in the unconscious man's voice that had him resorting to Sharon first, and then if she ordered it, he would call an ambulance.


	5. Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been overwhelmed with how much you guys have been loving this! Which makes it worse how slow I am at updating so after scrolling through everyone's amazing comments I whipped up this quick chapter for you guys. It's short I know but I hope you enjoy it all the same!

        “What were you thinking?”

        “What do you mean?”

        “Look at him. You should have taken him straight to the hospital Steve, look at him. He’s a…”

        “I know Sharon I can see what mess he’s in but every time I mentioned it, he panicked and tried to run away. I couldn’t take him somewhere that would make things worse. I didn’t know what to do, that’s why I called you.”

        “I can’t help him Steve, not the way he needs. If those burns don’t get infected, the damage from the rape will. His ribs are broken, those are chemical burns Steve, right down his oesophagus. From what I can tell there are numerous fractures and the deep tissue wounds? It’s a wonder he can even breathe right now never mind anything else.. I… I know you don’t want to take him there but we have to.”

        “...alright. I know, I know.”

        “I’ll go call them.”

 

        Bucky, vaguely, could hear the conversation above him. Steve and a female voice that he didn’t recognise. Unfortunately he couldn’t hear Brock and that was the voice he wanted to hear. The whisper in his ear when he’d be close enough that Bucky could apologise and then things would be okay again. He truly believed he would be okay when Brock came home.

 

        Instead he has voices swimming above him, the sound of footsteps moving around and the creak of a chair to his left. Then he felt coldness along his brow, a damp cloth being pressed there and Bucky shifted, well attempted to shift, away from the touch and tried to open his eyes. The lighting was harsh and he blinked a couple of times before being able to focus on what was going on around him. He wasn’t in the kitchen anymore, in fact he didn’t recognise the room at all and the stillness was quickly broken by his increased ragged breathing.

 

        “Hey, hey easy,” Steve withdrew his hand and the cloth when he saw Bucky trying to shift away and the sound of his breathing brought a quiet wince across his features. “I brought you back to my place. When you collapsed, I tried to take you to your bed but there was blood and I--... so I brought you back here. I called a friend, she’s a nurse but you’re… your condition is… she’s calling an ambulance.” He confessed it all quickly, quietly while shifting forward to the edge of the seat. He could see the panic flitting across Bucky’s face, between the irritated skin and bruises and Steve reached out once more.

 

        “Please, don’t freak out. You’re hurt, terribly so. You need help. No, no don’t try and speak. Just rest.”

 

        Bucky listened to every word but the only thing that stuck through the pain that settled within him was the fact that he was in another place and would never know if Brock came home or not. He tried to shift on the bed, tried to push himself up but it was fortunate that he was weak enough that the movement was enough to have him sinking back into darkness with a blur of panicked thoughts.

 

        Sharon appeared at the door a few moments later, glancing at Bucky as Steve moved back over the unconscious man and pressed the cold cloth back to his temple.

 

        “I heard voices.”

        “He woke up for a second. Never seen a guy look so scared moments after waking up. Usually the dreams are the nightmares, not the waking.” Steve removed the cloth to dip it into the bowl and re-apply it. “Did you call them? The hospital? He’s gonna freak when he wakes up there.”

 

        “I did. They’ll be here soon.”

* * *  
  


        It took three days for Bucky to regain consciousness after that. The ambulance had arrived and taken him off to the hospital with Steve right beside him. Explaining his condition and how he had been found had been quite the struggle until Sharon had turned up and vouched for Steve. After that Steve had sat outside Bucky’s room while the doctor’s tended to him in the hours after, through the surgery that followed and the many tests. Despite not being family, Steve was given a few details of his condition including the chemical burns in his mouth, nose and throat from cleaning products, the broken ribs and shattered bones, deep tissue damage and the damage from the sexual assault -- which the doctor revealed had not been the first, in fact it had been one of many.

 

        Three days it took before there was any hint of consciousness. Steve was again right by his side as he waited for any sort of response from him. He looked so pale lying there among the big pillows that Steve nearly missed the first flutter of his eyes and the hitch in his breathing as consciousness came drifting back. Those pale blue eyes finally opened, fluttered and landed on him which had Steve breaking into a warm smile.

 

        “Hi, you’re awake. That’s great. Do you… remember me? Steve? Your neighbour? I stole your milk? Well I didn’t steal it really I just took it by accident. Weird, I know. I’m sorry you didn’t want to be brought here, I had no choice. When the ambulance arrived I couldn’t get you to wake up. I had no choice, I’m sorry.” It all spilled out rather fast and Steve ended in a rush with another smile.

 

        Bucky was indeed a jumble, slower from the painkillers in his system but he did recognise Steve and the sudden blurt of information took him a few moments to process it all. He ended up smiling, faintly but it was there. “Brock… is he here? Outside? I--- is he?”

 

        Steve’s expression hardened at the mention of that man and he leaned back in his seat, casting a glance over the machines, the apparatus keeping Bucky’s pain at bay. He had questions of course, the most pressing being how a man that was in the army had ended up in such a position but he knew to be delicate and with Bucky in a hospital, now was not the time to ask such questions or to voice his opinions.

        “No. He’s not here Bucky, you’re sa--.... it’s just us,” Steve replied, watching the disappointment flit across Bucky’s face. Not that it mattered. Brock would get what was coming to him, Steve would make sure of that.

        Bucky swallowed down the threat of tears -- brock would come for him -- and turned his gaze fully on Steve.

        “You… why are you here? Why did you h-help me?” he stuttered out carefully, voice torn and hoarse. Steve’s brows shot up in surprise before he frowned.

        “I didn’t recognise you at first but it came to me a few days ago. You… you really don’t remember? You don’t remember… me?”


	6. Mystery 1 - Solves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep I wrote another chapter for you guys because I felt bad for leaving you on such a cliffhanger - so of course I wrote another one! Enjoy!

In the stillness of the night, amongst the gentle rustling noise within the hospital, Steve Rogers was focused on only one sound; the steady beep from the heart monitor next to the bed. Bucky hadn't been all that up for conversation when he had last been awake and Steve didn't have the heart to press. His mind was weighed down with the thoughts of what had been going on above him. At first he had tried to give Brock the benefit of the doubt, innocent until proven guilty but Bucky's condition was so severe he couldn't imagine anyone living with him and allowing a third party to treat him in such a foul way.

 

Not that Steve knew anything about Brock and true maybe that was his only crime but far too many pointers indicated Brock to be the culprit. Steve half wanted the man to turn up just so he could beat the shit out of him and the other half had him wanting Bucky to never have to lay eyes on Brock ever again. Only time would tell.

 

The chair creaked as he pushed himself up from the unforgiving plastic and eased out the aches in his back. Sharon had left a few hours ago to start her shift though he had yet to hear from her. The doctor had dropped around to try and get some information out of Bucky but the man had clammed up and fallen asleep, leaving the nurse to change his dressings. Steve stayed by his side the entire time, knowing that the medical staff either thought him to be the culprit or an incredibly stupid neighbour. Honestly Steve couldn't blame them.

 

But when the doctor had gone over Bucky's medical history, mainly the old fractures on his left arm and the origin of the interesting scarring, did Steve know that this Bucky was definitely the same man he had met all those years ago in the military.

 

Steve crossed over to the window, staring out through the gaps in the blind to the dark city. He should be at work but the thought of calling in sick never crossed his mind, instead he just let his thoughts wander to the past.

 

Years ago, what felt like a life time, Steve had been rising in the army with speed and prestige. He was good at leading people, good at keeping them safe and knew what made a good soldier. So when a barely aged teen had joined his tanks, stumbling over his rifle in an attempt to be less later than he already was, Steve had known he wouldn't last. The guy was fierce for sure, fought like an animal and showed true skill but Steve had never selected him for his team, instead Bucky had been assigned to a different Captain and thus a different squad. He had never made the connection when he met that same reckless young guy, now a Sergeant, some time later in a bar.

 

The night was quite a blur for Steve, in fact he could only remember feeling more than actual events. How that guy had made his skin feel like it was on fire, how every touch had sent him spiralling into a pleasure he had no idea he was capable of experiencing. Brown hair between his fingers and dog tags tangling together through messy kisses.

 

He'd been gone when Steve had woke the next day and the Captain had returned to duty, only to learn of the explosion a few days later and the heroic sergeant that had been so badly wounded saving his team from a death trap.

 

Looking at that hospital bed now, it was hard to believe they were the same person and Steve needed to know how, he needed to know what had happened between then and now that had led to such a broken sight before him.

 

Steve pulled the blinds shut with a twist of his wrist and pushed those memories away, living in the past never did anyone any good. The heart monitor still beeped on and from what he could tell all the guys vital signs looked good. It was then that Steve decided it was a safe risk to leave and disappear to the bathroom. He left the room trusting the security cameras and in a desperate need to urinate he was sure nothing could happen while he was gone. Still he made sure to shut the door firm behind him and darted down the hall in search of the bathrooms.

 

He missed the guy hanging around just further down the corridor with his collar turned up high and his head ripped down low. He wasn't anywhere near sight range to catch that man slipping down the corridor and easing his way into the room Steve had just left.

  
Steve didn't suspect anything until mid-way through relieving himself he realised he's seen that jacket before.


	7. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternative recovery methods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG I'm so sorry I know it's been an age since i updated, life and work got so hectic but I have been bombarded with messages and comments of people wanting an update and I'm so honoured that you all haven't forsaken this fic yet! So here's the next chapter and I hope it was worth the insanely long wait!

        Steve was a gentle soul, he liked to believe he gave everyone the benefit of the doubt and a chance to explain themselves regardless of the situation. 

 

        Then again he had never faced one like this before. He'd never zipped himself up so fast (luckily free from injury) and sprinted from the bathroom. It felt impossibly long ago since that stranger had crashed into him outside their apartment building and dropped their keys. Maybe in some distant future he would be thankful for that day. Not now though, as he ran back to Bucky's room and crashed through the door, knowing the owner of that jacket was the same one that has dropped the keys for Buckus apartment.

 

        When he saw the man standing there at the foot of Bucky's bed setting down a bouquet of flowers, Steve saw red. All thought of logical explanation or innocent explanations went flying from his mind and he tackled the stranger where he stood. They both crashed to the floor, the stranger letting out a strangled cry of surprise as the flowers slipped from his hands and fell to the floor moments after the two men.

 

        "You son of a bitch," Steve snarled "think you can just slip back here and terrorise him some more?!" The first punch was thrown without thought, skilled knuckles crashing into a soft face followed by a spurt of blood spraying from Brock's nose. Steve didn't stop there, the second punch was delivered with his other hand, just as strong, just as  _ furious _ that that scumbag was here in Bucky’s room. The man below him struggled, threw his own punch that caught Steve square in the throat and sent him sprawling across the floor with a gasp.

 

        "What the hell dude?!" Brock cried, scrambling to his feet, and as Steve jumped to his own, he realised that this man didn't quite look like he remembered. He was... smaller, stockier than the man that had crashed into him that fateful morning. That didn't stop Steve charging at the man once again, slamming into him and grasping his jacket and shirt to practically throw him into the wall. The plaster dented with the force and the man cried out, hands raised as he fell to the floor.

 

        "Hell no! This ain't worth 100 bucks! Back off man!"

 

        The words caught Steve through his anger, chest heaving as he stared down before grabbing the strangers collar and dragging him to his feet and slamming him into the wall with force once more only this time he held him there.

 

        "What the fuck are you talking about?" Steve growled as the man tried to raise hands to defend himself and stem the flow of blood from his broken nose and a torn gash above his right eye.

 

        "You're fucking crazy man!" the stranger yelled thickly, grunting as Steve pulled him away from the wall a fraction before slamming him back with just as much strength.

 

        “100 bucks?? Someone paid you to come here?” Steve yelled, and he could hear the distant thud of footsteps,could hear the screech of an alarm -- when did that happen -- but he wouldn’t let this asshole go until he knew.

 

        “Yeah! Look man a guy found me at the bust stop, gave me a hundred bucks if I’d come here, find James Barnes and give him the damn flowers. Said I should wear this jacket so the guy would know who I was, that’s all I swear!” The man trembled under Steve’s grasp, blood flowing freely but his words appeared to be honest.

 

        At that moment security crashed through the door and Steve was dragged away from the stranger but he raised his hands, showed he was not the threat and let out a breath as Sharon followed moments later. It took some explaining, in fact it took a lot of explaining as they were both dragged out into the hall and it then became clear that the guy in the jacket -- Brock’s horrid jacket -- was a homeless guy Sharon new purely because he was in and out of the hospital on free clinic days. Steve was released and Sharon allowed him back in Bucky’s room but they both knew that here was no longer a safe place for the victim. The stranger was taken away by security and Sharon said she would be back to look at Steve’s hand but until then he was allowed back.

 

        Back in Bucky’s room, the wall was now dented, there was blood on the floor and those flowers sat on the table as if they could somehow make up for nearly killing the man in the bed. Steve didn’t waste any time as he picked up the flowers and threw them in the trash can before sitting back down in that uncomfortable plastic chair -- and realising Bucky was awake. How long he had been awake for, he had no idea, but those tired eyes were fixed on him and Steve cleared his throat, shifted forward careful and parted his lips to speak but the other got there first.

 

        “Brock… he got me flowers? He knows I’m here? Is he… s’he gonna come?” There was such… hope in Bucky’s voice that Steve felt sick. But he knew that with abuse victims the key was to tread carefully but Steve could only keep up the facade for so long. So despite the hope in the poor man’s voice, Steve shook his head.

 

        “He might know where you are but I’m not going to let him come for you. Not anymore. James -- Bucky, you have severe internal bleeding, four broken ribs and one the surgeon had to re-break because it had healed so badly. You’ve malnourished, the lining of your stomach ruptured, you’ve got chemical burns to the soft tissue of your nose and throat, your oesophagus is swollen, your eyes and burned, your vocal cords are strained, you have multiple deep tissue lacerations, hairline fractures on your skull and thighs, severe crushing damage to your testicles, tears along your penis, horrific internal trauma to--... how, how can you lie there and want him to come back?”

 

        Bucky’s word had been fairly quiet since he had gotten here but no one, no doctor or nurse had been quite as detailed about his injuries as his neighbour was now being. Each waking moment he was in pain and the loneliness was crippling, this dependency he had on Brock was crushing him from the inside out and those few moments when he had woken up to yelling with flowers on the table and Brock’s name in the air, he had hoped. And now, now here was a stranger listing off all the ways Bucky could show Brock how dedicated he was to being with him. That he could survive all that, surely that made him strong?

 

        And yet at the same time he was somewhat aware of how fucked up that was. His gaze dropped away from Steve as that question hung in the air and he stared down at the neat, pristine blankets that were laid across him. 

 

        “I love him,” was the only answer he was able to give, before he closed his eyes as if he could block out the world. All those people interfering, Brock was never going to come for him at the rate, he was never going to come back.

 

“If he loved you, he wouldn’t torture you like this,” Steve replied softly.

 

        “SHUT UP!” Bucky yelled, as loud as he could get with as hoarse as his voice was, “Shut up! You don’t know anything about him, about us, you don’t know anything! GET OUT!! I don’t want you here, Get out!”

 

        “James-- James please…”

 

        “GET OUT!” Steve could see he was causing Bucky more distress so he rose from his chair and watched as the poor, broken man tried to roll over and curl up.

 

        If Steve ever saw Brock again, chances were that he could kill him.

 

                                                                                                                 **********

 

        Unfortunately life demanded that Steve had to return to work and eventually home was he was no longer welcome in Bucky’s room. The days started to pass painfully slow from one to the next as Steve was forced to return to his life. His only updates on Bucky were nightly from Sharon when she would either call or drop round for dinner to give him what information she could.

 

        “He’s had a psychiatric consult and we moved him to a secure room. He’s started light therapy to get him accepting that what happened to him isn’t any kind of love. He’s healing, still not eating but he’s under 24 hour watch and he’s safe.”

 

        Steve’s reply was always that Bucky shouldn’t be alone, but from here there was nothing he could do about it. The days kept passing and Steve made a trip to the hospital three times in the passing fortnight, under the guise of seeing Sharon but really he wanted to be near, just in case. Each night as he showered and watched his hand heal, he was reminded of the creepy length that man would apparently go to, to keep his grip on Bucky.

 

        Eight days since Steve had left the hospital, he made a call to an old friend. A General he had served under and with as much discretion as he could manage, he laid down the situation and his suspicion was confirmed. James Barnes was  _ that _ James Barnes. General Fury was against Steve’s idea at first but the former Captain was very persuasive and within a few days, there was a military protection detail placed on James’ room, his medical bills were taken care of by the United States Army and a position was freed and cleared up at a rehabilitation center out in the middle of nowhere for James if he chose to take it.

 

        It was just after the two week mark when Sharon phoned a little before Steve’s shift started and informed him that Bucky had been asking after him. It was… a surprise but Steve wasted no time in calling in sick to work - again - and making his way to the hospital. 

 

        Reaching Bucky’s room, he was checked by the two soldiers stationed outside but as they were friends it was more a show of how thorough they were being in keeping a downed soldier safe. Stepping past them and into the room, Steve was met with a better sight than the last time he had laid eyes on Barnes. He looked… pinker. Still half dead but half dead with some life in his veins. And his eyes, god his eyes were clearer and they were beautiful.

 

        Bucky hadn’t expected Steve to come, he couldn’t even work out why he wanted to see him again. Perhaps because all the strange people, all the poking and prodding and shifting and question after question was too much for him to handle and he wanted someone who wasn’t there to check on his health. He was beginning to understand, a little, that Brock was not the man he thought he was. Truly accepting that was proving to be a challenge though. The man he had been with for years, that he had loved and cared for and tried so hard to please, was really a twisted man. But one thing he could not shake was the need to apologise and thus, Steve was the only one he could give one too.

 

        When he walked through that door though, Bucky momentarily forgot what he had planned to say to him. He was so… he was a work of art, not that Bucky was allowed to look. But if he were allowed, he would certainly be in awe of how big, how soft he looked all at the same time. Even in those simple jeans and paint splattered top he looked…. well, he looked good.

 

        Steve stopped somewhat awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure if he should proceed forward or if he should keep some distance between them for Bucky’s own peace of mind. Bucky however couldn’t get his voice to throw that far so he pointed a shaking hand to the nearby chair and dropped his gaze. What could he really say to the man that had gotten him the best security and now seemingly best treatment the Military could buy? What could he say when he could rarely get his mind of his abuser? Thankfully, Steve broke the silence first.

 

        “I uh… nice that they put you in a room without a dent in the wall,” he murmured, huffing out a soft laugh that ended quickly as if it was inappropriate for him to laugh. He moved to the chair and sat slowly, keeping his hands together and in front of him where Bucky could see them. “I also… I hope you weren’t too offended by the Army turning up. We always look after our own, no matter the situation.” Steve glanced up and kept his gaze steady, honestly unsure how to act for fear of making Bucky either scared or worse.

 

        “It… was a surprise,” Bucky admitted, “But I… appreciate it. I wanted to… I wanted to say sorry for what I did. I need to say sorry for what I did and I can’t… do anything so I need to say it so you’ll know, I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m not supposed to-- I shouldn’t have yelled at you I---”

 

        “I like that you yelled,” Steve cut in quickly, wanting to stop that sudden stream of apology on the suspicion that he was doing it to satisfy some rule Brock shoved into his poor mind. “You think you need to apologise but you really don’t. I like that you yelled, shows you’ve still got some fire in there.”

 

        Bucky swallowed down the rest of the apologies and while it made him feel uncomfortable that he didn’t get it all out, he was more confused. Brock would never let him get away with something like this, it didn’t make sense. Bucky had been fighting that itch to hurt himself ever since he had woken up here but ir surged forward in the wake of his silence.

 

        “I don’t… understand,” he whispered, half to himself.

 

        “I know,” Steve nodded, shifting forward. “But it’ll make sense in time. It’ll get easier, better and I want to help you. You think we don’t know each other but we know a little. I want to help. You lived above me for god knows how long and I want to help.” 

 

        “It wasn’t your fault,” Bucky spoke immediately, it was his own fault and he knew that. 

 

        “It wasn’t your fault either,” Steve relied just as fast. Bucky looked like he was going to say more but they were interrupted by the door, a nurse entering and announcing it was time for Bucky to go down for his MRI. Bucky shoved down a little into the blankets and nodded before glancing at Steve. 

 

        “Will you wait? Until I come back?”

  
               “Absolutely.”


	8. Hospitals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has a few moments to himself but that only makes the war harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Short chapter for you now because I'm working on something sweet for next chapter to break up the angst and it's about time we saw our boys getting some action hmm? Stay tuned!

            Bucky hated the hospital. He knew that everyone he came in contact with thought the fear he displayed was because of what had happened but no, he had hated hospitals long before Rumlow came along. Back when he had been so young and excited to join the army, with little prospects but a determination to do well and make someone proud, even if it was just his team mates. There hadn’t anyone else to fall back on at that point and Bucky had worked hard, even if he had been passed over by a certain blond Captain. Bucky didn't hold grudges though, but the explosion had ruined all that. He had spent so long, weeks in intensive care and the damage to his left arm had been extensive. 

            But he can still so clearly remember the first week being strapped down because he was a danger to himself with his trauma. He can remember the smell of burnt flesh and feel the tightness creeping over his arm at night as if to remind him of when his life ended. That's where some of the fear came from when he was wheeled around for test after test.

            The words mostly washed over him as he was told over and over of how he was lucky to be alive, how he was safe now and that he wouldn't ever have to go back to being treated like a dog. Unfortunately for Bucky, he wanted to go back. He felt lost without Runlow by his side, couldn't recreate the pain he thought he deserved and couldn't shift the crushing ache in his chest when he thought of how Brock must surely hate him for getting all these strangers involved. Pains that didn't make sense when he was lying in a tube having machines list the damage to his organs, the swelling of tissue. They didn't make sense either when his nurse came to change the dressings of his wounds or swap the catheter for a clean one. They didn't make sense when the psychiatrist tried to get him to talk.

            But they did make sense when he saw Steve. Despite his apparent lack of memory on the topic, he did indeed remember Captain Rogers and with that came questions as to why he was no longer serving, why he was living in the same building, by coincidence? There was a lot he wanted to say, a lot of anger too that Steve had ruined what he truly believed to be the perfect life he deserved. But he was the only friendly face that didn't belong to the hospital.

  
            After countless tests, Bucky was wheeled back into his room - unable to make eye contact with the two friendly special ops stationed by his room -- and was saddened to see Steve appeared to have left. As they positioned the bed and locked the brakes, the disappointment was lifted when he saw Steve's jacket still draped over the back of the chair. So he was still here? The staff left and Bucky was left in the silence of the room staring at that jacket and for a moment, he smiled. It was unexpected and he quickly curled up into a ball, using the blankets to hide his mouth as if someone could see. But that's how it was, wasn't it? Brock could see everything, seemed to know all that was in his head and Bucky, as much as he loved him -- thought he loved him -- he wasn't so keen on living in fear. And unfortunately Steve was the poster boy for how his life should have turned out.

            He was military, had the look of an injured man so he must have been discharged and yet somehow Steve hadn't ended up in the same position Bucky found himself in. He was the dream and Bucky was... this. Steve didn't re-appear for a few moments so he let his eyes closed and with his mind on Steve, it wasn't long before he slipped into a half-sleep caught up in the memory of when he had first met Steve properly.

            When Steve returned with coffee in hand and some juice for Bucky, that's how he found the patient. Curled up under the covers and... moaning? Was he dreaming? What on earth could he be dreaming about?


	9. Safe Travels...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a short time skip, it's time for the next step in Bucky's recovery. But can Steve keep his thoughts as innocent as his intentions?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhh it has been so long since I updated I am still stunned people have been reading and leaving kudos and words of encouragement! It's super hard to keep fics up to date and RP and work at the same time but I try! Thank you all for your support and I hope you enjoy this chapter, it's like the calm before the storm xD
> 
> [ same as always, unbeta'd ]

The months had passed painfully slow for both of them but the one thing that became clear for each of them was how they enjoyed each other's company. Bucky recovery was staggeringly slow but no one rushed him, no one dared to because if they did they would have to face Captain Rogers. The man was like an angry bear anytime someone tried to do something Bucky didn't like or didn't want to do. A friendship had slowly built between them, one that currently ignored their night of passion all those years ago and instead focused on the little things that helped Bucky grow in confidence.

 

Each morning they would sit and do the crossword together, Steve purposefully getting answers wrong to coax Bucky into correcting him. He would even spell things wrong just to have Bucky reaching out and correcting him without fear of retribution. A huge step for the man who still nightly suffered from terrors and jumped at every sound.

 

Physically his recovery was going well and he only had a few more weeks in a cast until it would be removed and he would start physiotherapy on his arm. The breaks in his pelvis were another matter and Bucky had shown no desire to walk, but over their time together, Steve had slowly persuaded him to accept the place at the army rehabilitation centre that Steve had secured for him the moment he got the army involved. He had pulled every string and favour he could find to enable Bucky the best restart in life.

 

And for Bucky, he knew this. He understood why Steve kept coming to see him and as time wore on, he found himself missing Brock less and less, and more and more looking forward to Steve's visits. He ate slow but regular, drank when he could and allowed one nurse to help him to the bathroom. But Steve was the only one able to get close enough to lean on the bed while they poured over the crossword or while they discussed the latest book Bucky had gotten from the roaming library.

 

Through it all, the police had been held back. Steve was working to get the military police involved instead but it was taking a lot of work since Bucky had been discharged for so long. Steve's involvement and insistence however was working in their favour. Other than the jacket incident, no one had seen hide nor hair of Brock and it was setting the Captain on edge. As the day of Bucky's transfer drew closer, he was certain something could happen and he found himself sleeping less, fearing he would hear of Bucky going missing in the night.

 

Late Wednesday afternoon, he finished his final shift at the bar. While they were happy to rehire him if he ever returned, Steve had taken a portion of his army pension to allow him to travel with Bucky and stay nearby, making it impossible to continue working in the bar. He left the milk and paper duties to young Todd on the eighth floor, packed his life into a back and left.

 

Arriving at the hospital was like any other day. He greeted the nurses, dropped by to see Shanon and made his way up to the secured floor where Bucky's two loyal, never failing military guards were standing by his door. Steve had learned that Simon was married with three kids, his wife also being an abuse survivor so when the question of whether he would be able to continue Bucky's protection detail across country came up, he had agreed straight away. Gary, single, had taken a little while but in the end had agreed to stay too, meaning all four of them would be travelling up together.

 

Steve left his bag with them, knocked softly on the door and slipped into the room.

 

Bucky was perched up in bed, his hair had gotten longer to just below his ears in his time here. He had definitely filled out since his arrival but the cross cross scar across his cheekbone was a painful reminder of his ordeal. So was the thin line across his throat where doctors had had to cut into his neck when infection had set into his oesophagus thanks to the chemical burns.

 

He had the paper clutched in his hands and immediately smiled when he saw Steve. Steve, of course had never mentioned the night he had heard Bucky moaning in his sleep, but it was hard not to think of that when Bucky made an excited sound and flipped the paper over.

 

“Will we have time for our crossword?” He asked. Since the surgery, his voice had taken a sultry undertone that sent a thrill through Steve every time he heard it. But what he felt was kept carefully under lock and key. He could risk being the one to take advantage when Bucky turned those trusting, big eyes on him when in times of pain. He took his usual seat and leaned on the bed, shaking his head.

 

"I don't think so but, we can do it in the car?" he suggested, not wanting to break the routine Bucky had fallen into. The travelling was surely going to be exhausting and the change of venue distressing. Steve kept repeating over and over that it was for the best but he could already see the tight line across Bucky's shoulders and he knew it was fear. He had the same rigid line when the therapist would try and talk about Brock. Bucky had been brainwashed into change being bad, so Steve would do what he could.

He reached out and slowly took Bucky's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze as he smiled.

"It's going to be okay Bucky, I promise. Simon and Gary are coming with us and you know them, and I'll be coming with you. I'm all packed. We can do the crossword in the car to pass the time!"

 

Bucky looked incredibly doubtful but he nodded. He was trying. Everything felt like a battle and he had no idea how he was going to survive never mind get from there to here but he had steps to follow when he felt overwhelmed and it was always easier when Steve was right there. So he clutched the paper to his chest and nodded,

 

"I'm ready... I think."

 

********************************************************************

 

In a dark room some miles away, each crossword Bucky and Steve had completed together had been carefully cut out of the paper and pasted to the side of the wall, spanning left in a fan across the open space.


End file.
